ALL THEM FRIVOLOUS SINGERS

Even now, as we are commanded to worship
those who murder in our name,
our songs express only the sex drives
of wounded cattle. And our guitars are strung,
our pages scrawled upon, only to wound
a neighbor who won the affection
of an ex-lover, or a neighbor whose shirt
is more elegant and fragrant than our own.

We shake hand after hand at parties
carelessly, as if flesh were taken for granted,
as if bodies were separate
from that which carries our song.
And now that the fire of a fallen city
has been put out, we wait for the fall
of all our cities with mildness, with
meek, tender movements and giggling,
our loves and hatreds small enough
to be restrained.

Because blood has been distant from us,
but now blood will rain on our streets
from embittered clouds, and blood
will run out of our bodies like wine
from a punctured sack.